Nothing to do with poetry this. I try hard not to be fanciful, or self-deluded, or indulge in wishful thinking, but sometimes things just get the better of you don't they?
For some reason, ever since staying awake all last night to listen to the results of the referendum come in (I fell asleep in the bath this afternoon), I have been having a recurring thought that there is some lost and lonely individual out there who has woken to the light of day today, and found it relentless and unforgiving, and they have ever since been thinking over and over to themselves “Why did I believe that Boris and Michael could have a good idea between them? Why did I do it? I must have been mad, what came over me? What have I done?"